


My Lungs Ache (For You)

by greaserbabes



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-05-31 15:52:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19429210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greaserbabes/pseuds/greaserbabes
Summary: "Is it possible," I wondered, "to fall in love with someone you can never touch?"Steve shrugs and smiles. "I guess so. I fell for you."Tony and Steve are two cystic fibrosis patients, who can’t get more than six fee withing each other. But would five feet apart really be so bad, if it stops their hearts from breaking too?-Or, the five feet apart stony au that absolutely no one asked for but I'm writing anyway.





	1. Tony

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! First--thank you for clicking!  
> Second, all rights for the story idea of course go to the movie writers and authors of the book. I've seen other people do stuff similar to this so I thought I'd try it out. Hopefully I don't get in trouble.  
> And third, character ages have been altered! So here they are:  
> Tony- 17  
> Steve- 17  
> Natasha- 17  
> Pepper- 37  
> Clint- 28  
> Rhodey- 20  
> Carol- 18  
> Sarah Rogers- 39  
> Sam- 18  
> Bucky- 17  
> Bruce- 18  
> Thor- 18
> 
> I'm really sorry if it's confusing :(

TONY

I take a step back to admire the newly decorated walls of the hospital room. The wall across from my bed is filled with paintings and posters, all of which Rhodey has given to me over the years. Looking at the bursts of color instead of the dreary white automatically makes me happier. I sigh and look at number seventeen on my to-do list: "Decorate Walls". I draw a satisfying line through it and set my list down, eying the empty IV pole. My first of many rounds of antibiotics is in exactly one hour and nine minutes. Lucky me.

"Knock-knock." a voice calls from outside my door. 

My face immediately breaks into a grin when I see Thor and Bruce waving at me. "You made it!" I exclaim and usher them inside.

"Lucky we did, too. This place is a maze." Bruce sighs dramatically and flops onto my bed. 

"Well, are you guys excited?" I ask, reaching out to mess with Bruce's hair, (he hates when I do it).

Thor frowns and shoves his hands in his pockets. "Second trip in a row without you."

Unfortunately, this isn't the first time my cystic fibrosis has taken me out of a class trip. About seventy percent of the time, things are fine. I go to school and do my work and hang out with my friends. But, the other thirty percent of my life is controlled by CF.

Bruce groans. "It's only two weeks. Are you sure you can't come, Tony? It's our last robotics retreat of our high school careers!"

"Yeah, I'm sure." 

"But you planned out the whole trip this year! Designed our entire final piece. Can't they move your treatments?"

"No." I say firmly. "They can't." Their faces fall and I immediately feel like shit. Obviously I want to go, but it's literally a matter of life or death. I can't risk flying across the country, getting sick, and then not coming back. I can't do that to my parents, not now.  
I notice Thor's book bag and pick it up. "Oooh, preliminary designs? You guys know I have to look through these, right?"

This perks them up a bit. "Of course, friend. That is why we brought them." Thor and I begin sifting through the pile of robot designs, while Bruce is busy on his phone. I roll my eyes and hold up a piece of paper that just has a stick figure drawing on it. 

"What do you think about this design for the semi-finals?"

"Uh-huh. I liked that one." He doesn't bother looking up from his phone, until Thor coughs, indicating that he's annoyed. Thor hates phones with a passion, and only ever uses his to text and communicate with people. He won't admit it's because he can't really figure them out.

Bruce gives him a small smile. "Sorry, I just found out that Jane just broke up with her boyfriend."

This catches Thor's attention. "Foster?"

"The one and only. She wants to meet us early at the airport tomorrow. Thor, this could be your chance. Two weeks together in California." 

Both Thor and I roll our eyes. It's so obvious to everyone on the entire planet that Thor has a huge crush on Bruce, except of course 𝘵𝘰 Bruce. "I'll be busy spending time with you, Banner."

"Don't give me that-" They begin bickering.

"What about this design?" I hold up a sketch of a robot called "U".

Thor grins. "I was hoping you'd pick that one!"

I smile and look at Bruce, who is glancing at his watch. He probably hasn't packed a single thing yet. He notices me looking and smiles sheepishly. "I still need to buy a beach towel for tomorrow." 

My heart sinks at the thought of them leaving, but I don't want to hold them back. "You guys have to get going then! Your plane is at like, the ass crack of dawn." Thor picks up all the designs and stuffs them into his bag, while Bruce stands giving me a depressed look. This annoys me immensely. It's not like they're the one's who have to miss the trip. They'll be together having the time of their lives and I'm going to miss it. The competition, the building, the beach, watching Bruce finally realize that Thor is in love with him. I swallow down the annoyance and smile, practically pushing them out the door. "Photoshop me into some pictures. You'll never even know I wasn't there."

"We will miss you, Tony." Both of them hug me.

"Yeah, yeah, I'll miss you guys too. Now go!"

"Love you Tony!" They call. I watch them walk down the hospital halls until they turn the corner and disappear. I wish that I was with them, off to pack instead of unpack. 

My smile fades as I shut the door and see the old family photo pinned to the back of the door. Me, Rhodey, Mom, and Dad all standing in front of our house posing with goofy smiles. I miss that day. All of us together, happy and smiling and for the most part healthy. I sigh and tell my brain to stop feeling bad for itself.

The truth is, it's not so bad here. Saint Grace's has been my home away from home since I was six years old. I get my treatments, take my medicine, drink my body weight in milkshakes, I get to see Pepper and Clint, and then I leave until my next flare up. But it's different this time. Instead of just 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 to get better, I 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦 to get better. For my parent's sake.

They screwed up everything by getting a divorce, and now that they've lost each other, they won't be able to handle losing me too. I just know it. So if I can just get better...

I shake my head and walk over to the wall oxygen, double checking that the flowmeter is set correctly, and listen for the steady hiss of oxygen coming out of it before I pull the tube around my ears and slide the prongs of the cannula into my nose. I grab my pocket notebook to read the next thing on my to-do list: "Record a video". I'm not really in the mood to record a video, but the list is the list, so I grab my laptop and sit cross-legged on my bed. 

I drum my fingers anxiously on the keyboard as I wait for my computer to start up. In the reflection of the screen, I can see my brown hair swooping into curls over my forehead. I frown and try to fix it the best I can, trying to make myself look presentable for a video. Logging on to my YouTube live account, I adjust the webcam, making sure that you can see one of Rhodey's drawings behind me. I always try to have one of his posters or paintings as my backdrop. 

I close my eyes and take a deep breath, hearing the familiar wheeze of my lungs as they try to fill with air through the sea of mucus. I exhale, slap on a huge smile, before pressing the enter key and starting my live video. "What's going on everyone? Hope you're all having a good Black Friday. I waited for snow, which of course never came." I roll my eyes and point the camera toward the hospital windows, the sky a cloudy gray, the trees completely barren. I watch as my live stream count steadily goes past 1K, a fraction of the 23,940 YouTube subscribers who tune in to see how my battle with cystic fibrosis is going.

"Anyways, I 𝘤𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 be getting ready to get on a plane to go to California right now for my robotics club final trip, but instead I'll be spending my holiday here at the hospital, thanks to a mild sore throat."

Plus a raging fever. This morning when my temperature was taken the numbers blinked out a strong 102. I don't want to mention it in the video, though, because my parents will definitely be watching this video later, and as far as they know, I only have a nagging cold. 

"Who needs two weeks of blue skies and sunshine and beaches when you could have a full month of chocolate pudding whenever you wish?" I laugh lightly. "Oh, and Pepper talked Dr. Cho into letting me keep all my meds and treatments in my room this time! Check it out," I turn the webcam to the pile of medicine and then to the medicine cart next to me, which I've already organized into alphabetical and chronological order by the scheduled dosage time I plugged into the app I made. It's finally ready for a test run.

That was number 14 on today's to-do list, and I'm pretty proud of how it turned out.

My computer dings as comments come rolling in. I see one mentioning Pepper's name with a heart emoji. She's a crowd favorite just as much as she's , my favorite. Ever since I first came to the hospital more than ten years ago she's been the respiratory therapist here, slipping candy to me and the other CFers, like my partner in crime Natasha. She holds our hand through even the most bone-crushing grips like it's nothing. 

I've been making YouTube videos for about half that time to raise awareness for cystic fibrosis. Through the years more people than I could have ever imagined began following my surgeries and treatments and my visits to Saint Grace's. 

"My lung function is down to thirty-five percent. Fr. Cho says that I'm steadily climbing the transplant list now, so I'll be here for a month, taking antibiotics, sticking to my regimen..." my eyes travel to the painting of lungs behind me. 

I shake my head and grab a bottle from the medicine cart. "That means taking my medications on time, wearing my AffloVest to break up that mucus, and a whole lot of liquid nutrition through my G-tube."

My computer sings away, messages pouring in one after another. Reading a few, I allow myself to feel happy, instead of the immense feeling of loneliness I've had since I got here. 

𝐇𝐚𝐧𝐠 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐓𝐨𝐧𝐲! 𝐖𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮.  
𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐦𝐞!

"New lungs can come in at any moment, so I've got to be ready." I smile like I wholeheartedly believe these words, but I learned long ago to never get my hopes up.

I give one final smile for the camera and wave. "Okay, everyone. Thanks for watching. Hope you all have a good day and what not. Bye!" 

I end the live video and exhale slowly. Lying back, I pick up the worn panda bear resting on my pillow. It's kind of childish to keep a stuffed animal I guess, but Rhodes got it for me when we were seven, and I've taken it with me on every hospital visit since. Platypus, he named it. I can't remember why, but I do remember thinking it was the funniest thing ever. 

There's a knock on my door, and not a second later Pepper busts in holding an armful of pudding cups for me to take my medication with. "I'm back! Delivery!" Clint trails in behind her, carrying an empty IV drip.

Pepper places the pudding cups at the edge of my bed for me to sort onto my medicine cart, then pulls out a list to double-check that the cart has everything I need on it. "What would I do without you?" I ask.

She winks. "You'd die."

Clint hangs the IV bag of antibiotics next to me. I notice that he now has an entire sleeve tattoo up his left arm. "A lots changed in the past six months."

He flexes his arm. "Mid life crisis, you know?"

"You're in your twenties."

He waves his hand and his eyes travel to my desktop back ground. "Winter formal pics? Meet any cute girl and take them to the dance floor?" He snaps his fingers. "Or guys?" 

I laugh. "No, just me, Bruce, and Thor. Together as usual. Well, Thor and I always have to convince Bruce to stay for more than an hour, but it's still fun." I show him and Pepper some pictures while he hooks me up to the IV drip and tests my blood pressure and O2 reading. 

"Alright," Pepper says when they get all my vitals. She nods to the filled medicine cart. "I'll still monitor you, but you're pretty much good to go." She holds up a pill bottle. "Remember, you have to take this one with food." She says, putting it down and picking up a new one. "And make sure you don't-"

"I got it, Pep." I say. She's just being her usual motherly self, but deep down she knows I'll be fine. I wave good bye to them as they head toward the door.

"By the way," Pepper says slowly as Clint ducks out of the room. "I want you to finish your IV drip first, but Natasha just checked in to room 310." 

My eyes widen and I move to launch myself out of bed to find her. "What? Really?" I can't believe she didn't tell me she'd be here!

Pepper steps forward, grabbing my shoulders and pushing me gently back down into the bed before I can stand. "What part of 'I want you to finish your IV drip first' did you not get?" 

I smile sheepishly at her, but how can she blame me? Nat was the first friend I made when I came to the hospital. We've fought CF together for a damn decade. Well, together from a safe distance anyway. 

We can't get too close to each other. For cystic fibrosis patients, cross-infection from certain bacteria strains is a huge risk. One touch between two CFers can literally kill both of them. 

Her serious frown turns into a gentle smile. "Settle in, relax. Take a chill pill." She eyes the med cart. "Not literally." 

I nod and laugh, a real one too. I feel relieved knowing that Natasha is here too.

"I'll stop by later and help you with your AffloVest," Pepper says over her shoulder and leaves. I grab my phone and text Natasha. 

𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞? 𝐌𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐨. 𝐓𝐮𝐧𝐞-𝐮𝐩.

Not even a second goes by and my phone lights up with his reply: 𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐬. 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝. 𝐈'𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞. 𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐞 𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫. 𝐆𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐡 𝐧𝐨𝐰.  
I lean back in bed and exhale. Honestly, I'm nervous about this visit. My lung function fell to 35 percent so quickly. It's a number that keeps my mom up at night. She doesn't say so, but her search history does. All searches on how to buy me more time. It makes me more afraid than I've ever been. But not for me. I'm worried about my parents and what will happen to them when I'm gone and they don't have each other. 

But with Nat here, I'll get through it. She understands. 

The rest of the afternoon goes by slowly. I work on my app. I put some Fucidin on the sore skin around my G-tube in an attempt to make t less fire engine red. I reply to my parents texts. I gaze out the window as the afternoon is ending and see two boys about my age, laughing and kissing as they walk into the hospital. It's not everyday you see a happy couple coming into a hospital. Watching them holding hands and exchanging longing glances makes me wonder if anyone will ever look at me like that. People are always looking at my scars, my cannula, or my G-tube. Not at me.

Soon I am just lying on my best looking up at the ceiling. I can hear the air struggling to get past the mucus taking space in my lungs. I crack open a vial of Flovent to help my lungs. I pour the liquid into a nebulizer by my bed, the small machine humming to life as vapors pour from the mouth piece. 

I hope when my parents come to visit, my breathing will be less labored. My mom was already giving me worried looks when I had to use my portable oxygen just to pack. 

There's a knock on my door, and I hurriedly look up, hoping to find Natasha. Pepper pokes her head in and drops a surgical mask and a pair of latex gloves onto a table next to my door. 

"New one upstairs. Meet me in fifteen?"

I grin and nod as she leaves. I grab the mouth piece and take one more hit of the Flovent before shutting the nebulizer off and picking up my portable oxygen. I put on the cannula and head over to the door, pulling on the blue latex gloves and surgical mask. 

I slide into my shoes and push open my door, opting to go the long way so that I can walk past Nat's room. 

I pass the nurses station and wave to a young nurse's assistant named Sarah, who is smiling over the top of the new, sleek metal cubicle. 

They replaced it before my last visit six months ago. It's the same height, but it used to be made of this worn wood that had probably been around since the hospital was founded sixty something years ago. I used to be small enough to sneak past it to get to whatever room Natasha was in, my head still a few inches from clearing the desk. Now it comes up to my elbow. 

I grin as I get to Natasha's door, and peer inside. She's fast asleep on her bed, curled up into a tiny ball underneath the comforter. I draw a heart on the dry-erase board on her door to let her know I've been there, before moving off down the hallway toward the wooden double doors that will take me to the main part of the hospital, up an elevator, down C Wing, across the bridge into building 2, and straight into Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. 

I know this hospital just as well as the house I grew up in. 

But before I can open the double doors, a room door swings open next to me, and I turn my head in surprise to see the profile of a tall, thin boy I've never seen before. He's standing in the doorway of 315, holding a sketchbook in one hand and a charcoal pencil in the other, a white hospital bracelet like mine wrapped around his wrist. 

I stop dead.

His golden blonde hair is cut neatly, but still perfectly messy at the top as if he just popped out of a Captain America movie or something. His eyes are a deep blue, the corners crinkling as he talks. 

But it's his smile that catches my eye more than anything else. It's lopsided, and charming, and it has a magnetic warmth to it.

He's so good looking, my lung function feels like it dropped another 10 percent. It's a good thing this mask covers half of my face, because I did not plan for cute guys on my floor this hospital stay. 

"I've clicked their schedules," he says as he puts the pencil casually behind his ear. I shift slightly to the left and see the he's grinning at the couple I saw coming into the hospital earlier. "So unless you plant your ass on the call button, no ones going to bother you for at least an hour. And don't forget. I gotta sleep in that bed dude." 

"Way ahead of you," I watch as the guy with shoulder length hair unzips the duffel bag he's holding revealing blankets. 

Wait, what?

Cute guy whistles. "Look at that. A regular Boy Scout."

"We're not animals, man." The other guy says to him, giving a big smile. 

Oh my God. Gross. He's letting his friends do it in his room, like it's a motel. I grimace and resume walking down the hallway to the exit doors, putting as much space as possible between me and whatever scheme is going on. 

So much for cute.


	2. Steve

"Alright, I'll see you guys later." I say, winking at Bucky and closing the door to my room to give him and Sam some privacy. I see the skull drawing on my door, an O2 mask slung over it's mouth, with the words "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here." written under it. 

That should be the slogan for this hospital. Or any of the other fifty I've been in for the past eight months of my life. 

I squint down the hallway to see the door swinging shut behind the guy I saw moving into a room down the hall earlier today. He's been by himself, lugging a duffel bag big enough for about three fully grown adults, but he actually looked kind of hot.

And let's be honest here, it's not every day you see a remotely attractive guy hanging around a hospital, no more Han five doors down from yours. Looking down at my sketchbook, I shrug, rolling it up and stuffing it in my back pocket before heading down the hallway after him. Not like I've got anything better to do. 

Pushing through the doors, I see him making his way across the gray tile floor, waving and chatting to just about everyone as he goes. He steps into a large glass elevator, overlooking the east lobby. I watch as his hands reach up to fix his face mask while he leans over to press a button, the doors slowly closing. 

I start climbing the stairs by the elevator, trying not to run into anyone as I watch it chug steadily yo the fifth floor. I run up the stairs as fast as my lungs will carry me, managing to get to the fifth floor with enough time to go into a serious coughing fit and recover before he exits the elevator and disappears around the corner. I follow him down a couple of hallways and onto the wide, glass encased bridge leading to the next building. 

Even though he just got here this morning, he clearly knows where he's going. Judging from his pace and the fact he apparently knows every single person in the building, I wouldn't be surprised if he were the CEO of this place. I've been here two weeks, and it took me until yesterday to figure out how to sneak safely from my room to the cafeteria over in building 2, and I am in know way directionally challenged. I've been in so many hospitals over the years, figuring out how to get around then counts as a hobby for me now. 

He stops short under a set of double doors reading EAST ENTRANCE: NEONATAL INTENSIVE CARE UNIT and peeks inside before he pushes them open. 

The NICU. Strange. 

Having kids when you have CF falls into the super difficult category. I've heard some people with CF bum hard over it, but going to stare at babies you might never have is a whole other level. That's just depressing. 

Looking both ways, I close the gap between me and the doors, peering inside the narrow window to see him standing in front of the viewing pane, his eyes focused on a small baby inside an incubator on the other side.

Pushing open the door and sliding inside the dimly lit hallway, I smile as I watch hot guy for a second. He's even better looking close up. He even makes a face mask look good. I watch as he brushes his brown hair out of his eyes, staring at the baby through the window. 

I clear my throat, getting his attention. "And here I thought this was gonna be another hospital filled with the same old sickies. But then you show up. Lucky me." 

His eyes meet mine through the glass, surprise filling them at first, but then filling with something more like disgust. He looks away, back at the baby. 

Great, he hates me already. 

"I saw you moving your stuff in. It was a lot. You gonna be here for a while?" He doesn't say anything, and if it weren't for the grimace, I'd think he didn't even hear me. "Oh, I get it. You're deaf."

That annoys him enough to get a response. I don't know what his problem with me is already. 

"Shouldn't you be procuring your 'guests'?" He snaps, turning to face me angrily as he pulls his face mask off. I laugh by how upfront he is. That really pisses him off? "You rent by the hour, or what?" He asks, his dark eyes narrowing. 

"Oh, so it was you lurking in the hall."

"I don't lurk." He fires back. "You followed me here." 

It's a valid point, but he definitely lurked first. "With the intent of introducing myself, but with that attitude of yours—"

"Let me guess," he says, cutting me off. "You're he type of guy who ignores the rules, because it makes you feel in control. Am I right?" 

"You're not wrong." I shoot back, leaning against the wall casually."

"You think it's cute?" 

"Do you think it's cute?" 

He rolls his eyes, clearly not entertained by me. The door bangs open and Pepper busts through, making both of us jump at the sudden noise. "Steve Rogers! What are you doing up here? Six feet at all times! You both know the rules!"

I look back at the boy. "Well, there you go. A name to go with your psych profile. And you are?" 

"Deaf." He smiles and puts his mask back on.

"Tony, thank you for putting your mask back on." 

"Tony, you need to lighten up. It's just life. It'll be over before you know it." I head out through the doors, across the bridge, and down C wing. Instead of going the long way, I hop on a shakier elevator which I discovered two days ago. It spits me out by the nurses station, where Clint is reading some paperwork. 

"Hey, Clint." I say, leaning on the counter and picking up a pencil. 

He glances up at me before going back to the papers in his hands. "What were you up to, dude?" 

"Exploring, pissing off Pepper." I shrug. "She's such a hard ass." 

"Steve, she's not a hard ass, she's just...what's the word..."

I give him a look. "A hard ass?"

"Firm. The rules matter. Especially to Pepper. She doesn't take chances."

I glance over to see the doors at then end of the hallway swing open again as Pepper and the goody-goody himself step out. Pepper’s eyes narrow at me and I shrug innocently. “What? I’m just talking to Clint.”

She huffs and the the two of them walk off down the hallway, towards Tony’s room. 

I sigh, watching him go. 

“He hates me.” 

“Who does?” Clint asks, following my gaze down the hall.

The door to Tony’s room closes behind the both of them, and I look back at Clint. His eyes fill with a mix between ‘Are you crazy?’ And something close to care. Mostly ‘Are you crazy?’ though.

“Don’t even think about it, Steve.” 

I glance down at the file sitting in front of him, the name jumping out at me from the upper left-hand corner. 

Tony stark. 

“Okay.” I say like it’s no big deal. “Night.” I stroll back into 315, coughing when I get there, the mucus thick in my lungs and throat, my chest aching from my excursion. If I’d known I’d be doing all this running around, I might have bothered to bring my portable oxygen. 

I check my watch to make sure it’s been an hour before pushing open the door. I flick on the light, noticing a folded note from Sam and Bucky on the bleach-white hospital sheets. How romantic of them. 

I try not to be too terribly disappointed that they’re already gone. My mom pulled me out of school and switch me to homeschooling when I got diagnosed with B. cepacia eight months ago. As if my life span wasn’t already ridiculously short, B. cepacia will cut off another huge chunk. And they won’t give you new Kong’s when you have an antibiotic-resistant bacteria inside of you. 

But ‘incurable’ is only a suggestion to my mom. She’s determined to find something that works, even if it means cutting me off from everyone. At least this hospital is only a half hour away from Sam and Bucky, so that they can visit me and tell me everything I’m missing at school. 

I unfold the note and see in Sams neat cursive, “see you soon! Two weeks until your big 18! Sam and Bucky.” And that makes me smile. 

“Big 18.” Two more weeks and I’m in charge. I’ll be off this latest clinical drug trial and out of this hospital and can actually do something with my life, instead of letting my mom waste it.

No more hospitals. No more being stuck inside white-washed buildings all over the world as doctors try drug after drug, treatment after treatment, none of them working.

If I’m going to die, I’d actually like to live first. Then I’ll die. 

I think about that fateful last day. Somewhere poetic. Maybe the beach, or a rowboat somewhere in Mississippi. Just no walls. I could sketch the landscape, draw a final cartoon of me giving the middle finger to the universe, then die. 

I toss the note back onto my bed, eyeing the sheets and giving them a whiff to be safe. Starch and bleach. Good. 

I slide into the leather hospital recliner by the window and push aside a heap of colored pencils and sketch-books, grabbing my laptop from under a bunch of photocopied 1940 political cartoons I was looking at earlier. I open my browser and type ‘Tony Stark’ into google, not expecting much. R seems like the type to have only the most private Facebook pages. Or a lame Twitter account where she retweets memes about the importance of hand washing. 

The first result, though, is a YouTube page called ‘Tony Stark’s not so secret CF diary’, filled with a least a hundred videos, dating back six years or so. 

I scroll down to the first entry, clicking on a video with a thumbnail of a young Tony wearing glasses and a mouthful of metal. I try not to laugh. I wonder what his teeth look like now, considering I’ve never seen him smile. 

Probably pretty nice. He seems like the type who would actually wear his retainer at night. I hit the volume button and his voice comes pouring out of my speakers. 

“Like all CFers, I was born terminal. Our bodies make too much mucus, and that mucus likes to get into our lungs and cause infections, making our lung function de-teri-orate.” The young boy stumbles over the big word before flashing the camera a big smile. “Right now, I’m at fifty percent lung function.” 

There’s a crappy cut, and she turns around on a set of hospital stairs that I recognize from the main entrance of the hospital. No wonder he knows his way around here so we’ll. He’s been coming here forever. 

He sits down on the steps and takes a deep breath. “Dr. Cho says that I’m gonna need a transplant by the time I’m in highschool. A transplant’s not a cure, but it will give me more time! I’d love a few more years if I’m lucky enough to get one.”

Tell me about it, Tony. At least he’s got a shot.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact, while writing this chapter, I got up for five minutes, and when I came back my laptop decided to restart itself, and I lost about half the work I had done.


End file.
